Craziness archives

Magical Hoodoo Bodily Fluids

Fantasy writers don't just make all this stuff up on their own. We have hundreds of thousands of years of mythmaking to draw from:

In the African-American hoodoo tradition, as well as in Sicilian folk-magic, menstrual blood served to a man in his coffee or tea is a sovereign recipe for capturing his sexual attention. No ritual, prayer, or invocation is necessary; you simply add some menstrual blood to the man's coffee or tea. The idea is to get your scent into the beloved's sphere of consciousness. This is nothing more or less than pheromone-magic, and as such it partakes of biology as much as it does of occultism. My Sicilian grandmother believed in its efficacy completely.

Operating on this sort of logic, ingesting coffee would make me want to make love to a coffee bean plant. Hmmm....

...there are probably a hundred (spells for) women who capture a man's semen to rule and control him or to keep him faithful. The most popular way to do this in hoodoo is by making a knot-spell on the man and keeping it tied up in a nation sack. For this purpose, the semen can be fresh or gathered from a discarded condom -- or even stored in the freezer until needed. Most of the rootworkers who have told me about how to capture semen have noted that it is important that the woman not have an orgasm when capturing semen, because then she might get "mixed up in the spell," and fall victim to her own conjurations. "Hold yourself aloof," was how one woman put it to me. "Don't let yourself get mixed into it when you collect his stuff."

Don't give in to the orgasm, ladies! You'll lose all your power!

Seriously, though, that's the first time I've ever read any sort of folksy advice to women about how having an orgasm would somehow deplete their power: you hear this a lot in relation to men and orgasm (Flaubert's moaning, "Well, I lost another book today")

However, for men worried about coming under the seductive wiles of women, some advice:

Because men are thought to be so susceptible to the magical deployment of women's menstrual blood, vaginal fluids, and urine, in some cultures they are taught to avoid eating anything served to them by an unmarried woman which might contain these bodily fluids. It is common for a man to refuse or only warily accept dark-coloured beverages like coffee or tea or foods with brown or red sauces such as barbeque, lasagna, or spaghetti from a woman.

Coffee: it always comes down to the coffee.

In Which the Protagonist Would Sacrifice a Herd of…

We did so many lunges and squats tonight that when I stepped up onto the bus for the ride home, my legs nearly gave out on me.

It was a tough class tonight, and it shouldn't have been. I was in Indy for three days last week, and had to deal with a storm of personal emotional issues when I got back. I've very, very bad at talking about my feelings, at dealing with the intense emotions of others, at expressing my own emotions, and hours and hours and days and days of that take me out.

I've been on edge all day. This morning I realized I had nothing left in my tank, and I started getting edgy and anxious, and my sugar was all over the board; stress will do that. By noon, I had a sugar headache, and I was desperately fighting off the urge to crawl into the bathroom at work and cry. My sugar was too high at lunch, and then dipped too low right before class, and clocking that low on the bus on the way to MA class, I nearly lost it again, and I went through the same bullshit bullshit crap: Why don't I have a fucking pancreas? What the fuck did I do wrong?

I ate a protein bar and stepped off the bus and let all the pain and anger and sadness wash over me, and then I put it into a little ball in my hand and squeezed it and thought, "It's going to be OK. It's going to be OK. It's all going to be OK."

And I could straighten out my walk, and I pushed away thoughts of needles and pain and anonymous nurses from when I was in the hospital, and I went to MA class, and I hit things and burned through the rest of the anxiety. But my stamina was for crap, and I had trouble concentrating, and it felt hard again; I felt so behind, so weak.

There is this thing that I usually do in these posts that I call power priming, but apparently, power priming isn't saying, "Things are crap, but I will be OK because I'm strong," it's saying, "Here is a time in my life when I was powerful."

For some reason, there are people who believe that I believe all this bullshit, that I live in this happy fantasy world where everything *is* OK and "fine" all the time.

Of course I don't. Don't be fucking retarded. I'm well-a-fucking-ware that I'm not always fine, that the world isn't always fine, and that sometimes, life is fucking hard.

But I get up every day. When I say, "I'm fine" that's as much me convincing myself of that as it is convincing somebody else. Most of the time, "I'm fine" means, "Change the damned subject. It was all I could do to get up this morning."

You know, some nights I want my goddamn beer and my goddamn cheese fries. Some days I want to be able to do a fucking work out without worrying halfway through that maybe I'm literally about to pass out. Some days I wish I didn't get hit with a fucking shovel. Some days I wish I wasn't pear-shaped. Some days I wish I was built like a dancer, with the gift of coordination. Some days I wish I was rich! And didn't need glasses!

And some days, I like to be fine. I like everything to be OK.

Those are the worst days. Those are the days I have to ball everything up, crush all the crap into something harder and better and prettier, like getting diamonds from coal. You just do it. Because the alternative is to sit in your room and hide and go and live with your parents the rest of your life because you're too scared of living to actually do it.

And I spent a good long time desperately afraid of living. You get tired of being scared all the time. It doesn't mean you're not scared, of course. It just means you do what you want to do anyway. Because the alternative is not to do it anymore, is to just go to sleep like I was doing the night I nearly died, and not wake up again.

That gets old.

And if this is me telling myself I'm stronger than I am and that I'll get through and blah blah blah and that somehow makes me a bad, delusional person, well, fuck that. The alternative is to turn this into some kind of emo LJ that talks about how I cried into my cornflakes this morning because no one loves me.

Now I'm going to go to bed, because it's too late for beer and the only writing I've got any brain left for tonight is this slap-dash blog post.

It sure is a good thing I'm fine.

Celebrate Your Citizenship!



Here. I think I'll get myself the tank top...

Included in the bill, passed by Republican majorities in the Senate on Thursday and the House on Wednesday, are unique rules that bar terrorism suspects from challenging their detention or treatment through traditional habeas corpus petitions. They allow prosecutors, under certain conditions, to use evidence collected through hearsay or coercion to seek criminal convictions.

This means that if Aunt Edna, that shithead who threw stuff at me in math class, and the asshole who wants to rent my 5th floor walkup all decide to call me a terrorist, I can be held indefinately, and in fact, convicted on the basis of what they've said, without any further evidence.

The bill rejects the right to a speedy trial and limits the traditional right to self-representation by requiring that defendants accept military defense attorneys. Panels of military officers need not reach unanimous agreement to win convictions, except in death-penalty cases, and appeals must go through a second military panel before reaching a federal civilian court.

Cause who needs a speedy trial if Gitmo's got cable????

More and more, waking up to shit like this reminds me of the interviews with Germans living in Nazi Germany while the Jews and so many others were being systematically wiped out.

In every interview, the Germans will say, "We didn't know. We just didn't know how bad it was."

I don't believe them.

Because I know.

And I know it will get worse.

I’ve Survived Worse

This is what I tell myself when it all really starts to get to me.

That, and I just blew $200 on shoes. Life can't be all bad when you can blow $200 on shoes, now, can it? Oh I love capitalism.

Cut me some slack; I can't binge eat anymore. The credit card's what I got.

Perhaps I should put all of this energy toward basket weaving.

Or, say, novel writing.

Yes, yes I know.

More sword fighting! More sex scenes! More blood! More bugs!!

Tornado Sirens

... going off like a motherfucker.

That's some scary fucking shit to be walking around in.

I'm now soaked, but the sirens have stopped, and the storm's now over the lake.

Fucking hell.

Yesterday’s Workaday Accomplishment:

I got to level ELEVEN of Chuzzle.

ELEVEN, people.

Fearmongering! Whooo!

Am I a bad person because I totally burst out laughing at the line "then they spit in our face and burn our flags" line?

Illegal immigration: now considered the greatest threat to America since "Islamo-fascism(?)"!

I Should Be Disgusted, But Mostly I’m Just Sad

HP has a new camera with a "slimming feature" option.

It's exactly what it sounds like. Dead serious.

A quick fix for the "inaccuracy" of that camera's "extra ten pounds" effect or yet another sign that we're all really, really, really way too fixated on the size of our hips?

I guess it just lets all of us photoshop ourselves with ease. I'd say what's in a body anyway, but I tend to think my history is in my body, and I don't know that I'd want to give that up.